What Seems True

By James Garrison

In 1980, the first black supervisor at a Texas Gulf Coast refinery turns up dead behind an abandoned drive-in theater. When a Texas Ranger comes to investigate, the refinery’s attorney, Dan Esperson, is drawn into the investigation—and into a tangled web of racial conflict, sex, and deception. Two refinery employees are arrested for the murder. One confesses that the other did it but will never testify. When the killer is released from jail for lack of evidence, Dan may be next on his list. 

What Seems True was inspired by a true crime on the Texas Gulf Coast in 1979.

“Award-winning author, J. D. Garrison returns with East Texas mayhem in the crime fiction novel, WHAT SEEMS TRUE. These larger-than-life characters deliver an entertaining read of lust, oil, good old boys, and one femme fatale.”
—Johnnie Bernhard, author of SISTERS OF THE UNDERTOW

“Smart and sensual, atmospheric, you can feel the humidity of the Texas Gulf Coast, smell the smoke-filled boardrooms and musty motels, the exhaust belching forth from the refinery that lights up the night sky like a fairyland in James Garrison’s latest novel, What Seems True … a savvy tale full of grit and grime and passion, vivid characters, and a male narrator who will appeal to both men and women. You will find yourself rooting for Attorney Dan Esperson, even when you are cringing at some of his choices … I highly recommend it.”
—KATHLEEN M. RODGERS, WINNER OF THE 2020 MWSA FOUNDER’S AWARD AND AUTHOR OF THE FLYING CUTTERBUCKS

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 1952816564

James Garrison

Enter the Author Bio(s) here.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter One—One Ranger

The day after they found

Billy Graham’s body out behind the old StarLite Drive-in Theater, a Texas Ranger came down to the refinery to investigate. I was there since I had just driven over from Houston that morning to meet with Perry Comeau, the HR Manager. Instead of discussing his troubles with the union, we spent my first cup of coffee and two doughnuts rehashing what he’d heard about the murder.

From Perry’s office, I could see the stairs leading up from the ground floor of the administration building. It was a hot October day on the Texas Gulf Coast, and his hall-door was wide open to let in some fresh air, or as fresh as it gets less than a hundred yards from the refinery’s hydrocracking unit.

Only halfway listening to Perry, I watched as the head and shoulders of a big man hove into view in the dim stairwell like a submarine from the deep. First came a white Stetson, then a camel-hair sports coat and white shirt with a bolo tie, followed by creased blue jeans tucked into a handsome pair of tan cowboy boots.

We knew he was coming. This being the South in the waning days of Jimmy Carter and the Klan still holding sway in this neck of the woods, a lot of people were interested in how and why the refinery’s first black supervisor had met his end. And who killed him. The Port Oso police were investigating, as was the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. Even the FBI was nosing around, although they hadn’t offered to send an agent. But Derek Frazier, the Port Oso Plant Manager, had demanded that the state police get involved—and not just any run-of-the-mill DPS officer. He wanted the Texas Rangers. And lo, here within hours, was a Ranger.

He was unlike any I had ever read about or seen in the movies or in real-life photographs. Gaunt with sunbaked, leathery skin, mustachioed cavaliers? Such as this, the man was not.

With a wheeze, he came to a halt on the landing and leaned with one hand on the railing. He was built like a bull and wide as a pickup truck. An expanse of white shirt bulged over a finely worked leather belt and a shiny brass buckle big enough to hold up the prodigious belly above it. His coat flapped open and I caught a glimpse of a long-barrel, silver pistol in a leather holster tied down to his thigh, just like he was John Wayne.

Merely an unlearned immigrant to the state, I wasn’t sure that real Texas Rangers still existed. But here was the living proof—even if the legendary mold formed by years of riding horseback through chaparral and arroyos in west Texas in pursuit of Comanches, cattle thieves, and train robbers had been shattered and recast by long automobile rides over ranch-to-market roads and platters of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes in small-town cafes.

Perry and I hurried out to greet him, and a large paw engulfed my stubby hand, accompanied by, Howdy, in bass. He took a deep breath.

Name’s Rogers. Leroy R. Rogers, but everybody calls me Roy.

Dan Esperson, I said, struggling not to cringe at his grip. I’m a company lawyer.

Releasing my hand and removing his hat, he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief that appeared out of nowhere.

Pretty lady downstairs said you’d be employee relations. Whisking the handkerchief back into a pocket, he took Perry’s hand and pumped it. Perry’s round head and shoulders bobbed up and down.

Yes sir, that’s me. Human Resources is what we call it these days. I’m John Comeau, ’cept they call me Perry, like they call you Roy.

The Ranger gave him a quizzical look as he dropped Perry’s hand.

He means Perry Como, the singer, I said.

Oh, ho. The Ranger chuckled and looked truly amused.

Come on in, Perry said and started back through the open door of his office, then detoured a little to the right and yelled into another door just down the hall. Hey, Sheila, bring us a jug of coffee and another cup. And bring the rest of them doughnuts. He twisted back to the Ranger. You’d like a doughnut, wouldn’t you?

Thank you, sir, but no thank you. I’m on a diet. The Ranger patted his stomach on the side away from his six-shooter, or whatever it was. I’m no expert on guns.

Once in his office, Perry motioned toward his conference table, a rectangular piece of solid-maple furniture that projected at a ninety-degree angle out from the front of his desk. The desk, table, and chairs were far older than I was, but in better shape—sturdy and polished to a dark gloss with only a few scratches here and there.

The office wasn’t large, with one window behind Perry’s desk and two doors, one to the hallway and one to the small anteroom where Perry’s secretary and assistant kept watch for him. The office’s white stucco walls were adorned with HR plaques and awards and a single 24-by-12-inch color photograph showing two men in hardhats, one of them Perry pointing down at something on the ground, the refinery cracking towers looming behind them. A pair of endangered shorebirds had taken up residence at a wastewater pond, Perry had told me, and he found a clutch of eggs in their nest.

The Ranger pulled out a chair and sat, shifting his buttocks to one side to make room for his gun inside the chair arm. Perry and I took the chairs across the table from him. Looking out the window past Perry’s head, I could see a tangle of silver-and-gray metal piping and spindly towers giving off clouds of steam. Beyond the hot white vapor, the ghostly fabric of the refinery stretched out to the coastal marshland where it met a pastel blue sky.

So, tell me about this boy of yours who got himself kilt the other night, the Ranger said. Maybe we can figure out what happened and get this thing wrapped up by lunch.

Know just the place, Perry said. He leaned forward in his chair. Lunch was always a priority for Perry when he had visitors. Great little Mexican restaurant. His grin quickly faded at the Ranger’s lack of expression.

Gotta be downtown by two… The Ranger’s face brightened. But we’ll see how it goes. He reached up to his hat, and I saw why his face had lit up all of a sudden.

Sheila had appeared in the connecting doorway to the outer office. She was carrying a tray with a silver thermos of coffee, an orphan mug from the Texas State Fair, and loose packets of creamer and sugar. The Ranger struggled to his feet and tipped his hat to her. Shorter than the Ranger but tall for a woman, Sheila displayed a limber, athletic physique. She was dressed in light gray slacks fitted snugly across her hips and a thin pink sweater stretched tautly across her chest.

Sheila Mills, my administrative assistant, Perry said, also rising. We don’t have secretaries anymore. As we all knew, the change was only in name.

Pleased to meet you, ma’am, said the Ranger. Roy Rogers. He held out his hand to her. Sheila hesitated, then timidly poked her hand forward.

Are you really a Texas Ranger? she asked, her eyes wide. They darted over at me and I smiled at her. I always made sure to get to know the secretaries, whatever they were called, and Sheila was one of the more pleasurable ones to know.

Been a ranger thirty-five years. Placing his hat on the table, the Ranger pulled his coat aside to display a round, silver badge with a star. He ran a thick index finger along the bottom of the circle and the words Texas Ranger.

Same badge since the beginning of time, ’cept now we’re part of the Department of Public Safety. Only about a hundert and thirty of us for the whole dang state, but we still handle the tough stuff.

Smiling broadly at her, he let the coat fall back into place over his big chest and stomach. The whole dang state, he said again. Still smiling and looking around, as if in a room full of people, he settled his bulk and the pistol back into the chair.

Sheila, who seemed as nervous as a star-struck teenager, removed the fresh mug from the tray and began pouring coffee into it. Her hand was shaking, and coffee sloshed over the side as the Ranger reached for the mug. I jumped up, thinking that the poor woman was overawed by this Texas legend.

Here, let me get a paper towel for that. I started for the door.

Oh, thank you, Dan, Sheila said. She looked at me with her wide blue eyes, the palest blue I’d ever seen. I nodded and smiled back, then left for the paper towels.

When I returned, Sheila had gone back to her office. Both the door to it and the hall were closed, and Perry and the Ranger sat across from each other, the Ranger leaning back in his chair with one arm draped over the back and his Stetson resting top down on the table. I quickly wiped up the spill and threw the paper towel in the metal trashcan by Perry’s desk.

What I need from you folks, the Ranger was saying, is to know all about this fellow. What he was like, who his friends were, his enemies

Billy didn’t have enemies, Perry said, shaking his head.

Must’ve had at least one. A friend wouldn’ta shot him so many times.

Perry blinked his eyes as he did when he was flummoxed. Everybody liked Billy. I never heard an unkind word about him.

Even from those in the Klan?

We don’t have any of them in here. Perry shifted uneasily in his seat and raised his eyebrows in a surprised look, like, who would ever imagine a thing like that. I knew he knew better.

The Ranger leaned farther back in his chair and fixed Perry with hard gimlet eyes, a flinty green.

They wouldn’t tell you if they were, he said. Not these days.

Well, I know the people in this plant. All that Klan stuff’s in the past.

The Ranger gave a snort and picked up the coffee mug while he kept Perry pinned with his skeptical gaze. Perry was a rotund, amiable man with a fringe of pure white hair on three sides of his baldpate, reminding me of a white marble bust of a garlanded Roman emperor I had seen somewhere.

Billy was friendly with everybody, Perry said, darting his eyes over at me, as if seeking help, or at least some confirmation. I only shrugged, so Perry charged ahead. He was easy goin’, bit of a smooth talker maybe ... maybe not firm enough with the people who reported to him. Perry fidgeted and twisted his coffee mug back and forth on the table without lifting it. Now Eddie Sykes, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if somebody shot that sucker. He was the next black we promoted, and he turned into a regular drill sergeant, drove his men ’til they sent the union rep up here to complain. But not Billy. No sir. He worked at being one of the boys, er … guys. Perry raised his hands at the Ranger’s unblinking stare. You may think that’d cause some problems out there, familiarity and all that, but his people respected him. And he was goin’ back to school at Lamar nights, Port Arthur campus and—

Okay, okay. The Ranger patted his stomach and sat forward in his chair, moving his hat to one side and resting his elbows on the table. Was there anybody with a reason to kill him? He diddlin’ somebody’s wife or something like that?

Oh no, not Billy. He was a strong Baptist. Of course, in the black church. Married and kids and all. Even a lay minister. Maybe it was a robbery.

Don’t add up. Out there behind that old drive-in theater in the middle of the night and a second set of tire prints almost on top of his’n. Shot five times or more, front and back and one in the face, the coroner tells me. Robber only needs one shot, maybe two.

The Ranger rubbed his cheek with a large hand and stretched up in the chair. Wallet was gone, though, he said, like he was thinking out loud. Settling back, he shook his head and picked up his coffee mug again.

But I don’t reckon it was a robbery. Had to be some hate and meanness in what they done to him. Only thing that’d add up to that kind of killin’, least in my experience, would be a woman. He drank from his mug. Or just ’cause they thought he was a smart-ass nigger.

He looked over at me and I grimaced at him. The words might be crude, but that sounded about right for some white folks in this part of the country. Perry was silent.

The Ranger picked up his hat off the table. Now let me give you the program, he said, slowly rotating the hat by the brim in front of him. First you tell me who all Mr. Graham worked with and who he palled around—

Got an org chart right here, Perry said, pushing back his chair and starting to go behind his desk. And his pals—

Hold on and let me finish. The Ranger held up one hand and leaned back in his chair with his hat resting on his stomach. I want your employee files—I’ll tell you which ones—and I plan to interview a few people.

Conference room across the hall would be good for that, Perry said and gestured toward the outer door. By now, he was behind the desk, digging in a drawer for the organization charts.

The Ranger’s mouth bent down at the corners, and he looked around the office, first at the ceiling and the window, last at Perry’s high-backed leather chair. Then he nodded slowly, both head and shoulders.

I’ll be fine in here. A little more in-ti-mate than a big ol’ conference room. I want to get the feel of the man I’m talking to, how he looks and smells close up. Or she, if it’s a she. He grinned at me, then at Perry. Only takes about five minutes with most people and I can tell if they know somethin’. He nodded again and spun his hat around. I’m thinkin’ we’ll be all through here by lunchtime.

It occurred to me later, much later, that we, especially Perry and I, had been rather cavalier in talking about Billy Graham. And his murder. Maybe even disrespectful. We weren’t considering him as a fellow human being who had suffered a terrible fate, but merely as an object of interest—a cipher, a problem to be solved, or at least dealt with in our little frame of reference. At worst, we were just rubberneckers on the highway of life, gaping at an accident and a covered body in the grass.

Chapter Two—The Interviews

While Roy the Ranger

reviewed the employee files, Perry hauled me down to Derek Frazier’s office to report on what was going on. First, though, he had to pull out his organization charts and seniority lists and explain them to the Ranger; then he dispatched Sheila for the files, almost twenty of them, on people the Ranger ticked off from a list he had been making in a small pocket diary. Perry left Sheila with instructions to summon everyone the Ranger wanted to interview and have them wait in the hallway outside Perry’s office.

Derek Frazier was a tall skeletal man with a thin, craggy face and a thick crop of dark brown hair I greatly envied, even if it was dyed. He had been a tank commander in Patton’s army and he still had the carriage of an officer—one in the British Raj.

Perry reported in the hurried, clipped way he got when he was excited, dropping words and cutting off the ends of sentences, while the plant manager paced from behind his desk to the window looking out over the plant. Derek was left-handed, and in his left hand, he held a short stick with a leather grip—a riding crop or swagger stick of sorts, which he tapped in the palm of his right hand. When he didn’t dangle it behind him as he paced.

Who does he want to talk to? Derek asked, his back to us as he stared out the window.

Don’t know, boss, Perry said with a negative wag of his shoulders. He was still looking through … He seems to think it has to do with race or sex or—

Why would he think that? The man was robbed.

Well, sir, he says based on his experience—

Counselor, does he have a right to see the employee files? Derek turned and paced back to the front of the desk, to stand a few feet from me. He popped the palm of his hand with the riding crop.

I leaned away in my chair and looked up at him. To have adopted such a swashbuckling, hard-nosed persona, Derek was one of the most cautious refinery managers I had to deal with. Normally, that made my life easier, but not always.

We could stand on the formalities, I said, "but it is a murder investigation, and one of our employees. If it were my plant, I’d let him have what he wants."

Derek gave me a sideways look that I took for skepticism, then paced back around to the other side of the desk.

The desk was completely bare, as was the credenza behind it. Not a picture, not a paper or any of those usual froufrous you see in a manager’s office, awards and such. The only decorations on the wall were photographs of the refinery units. Well, there was one personal item: an enlarged frame from the Patton movie, George C. Scott in front of an American flag.

I agree with Dan. I... Perry started.

Do you know what he’s after, Dan? Derek pivoted about and headed to the window again.

Best I can tell he just wants to take the measure of the people around Graham. See if he can stir something up. He sure doesn’t have much time to do a real investigation.

Okay, keep me posted … Perry, I need to talk with you. And get Layton Van Horn in here…. Thank you, Dan. Derek was back behind his desk, and I had been dismissed.

Ranger Roy had taken over Perry’s office and the door was shut tight. I sat outside in the anteroom and pretended to review a notebook on contract negotiations with the union. The anteroom was smaller than Perry’s office, windowless with the same white stucco walls, except for two large, glossy photographs: an offshore rig at sunset and a brightly lit Texaco station at night. A wooden railing divided the work area—with its filing cabinets and a couple of desks, one occupied by Sheila and the other empty—from the waiting area with its two worn leather chairs. I took the chair next to the railing so that I faced the door to Perry’s office.

What I really wanted from this vantage point was to observe the Ranger’s subjects as they came and went. And to have an opportunity to chat with Sheila and observe her as she typed and did some sporadic filing.

Sheila had started as a laborer in the plant, like all new blue-collar workers, and moved up to light-equipment operator and then to truck driver. Along the way she had managed to get an associate’s degree, and this last July, she made her way into the administrative job with Perry. At the time, Perry, chuckling on the phone, had told me she had nice tits, which caused me to cringe, mainly because Perry never talked like that. And he was the HR Manager.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Sheila pull open a desk drawer and take out a small bottle. Removing the cap, she squeezed a white lotion into her palm and began applying it, first on the backs of her hands and her fingers, then rubbing her hands together, and finally massaging the back of each hand. Her fingers were long, almost elegant. It was hard to imagine those fingers sheathed in heavy work gloves. But unlike her smooth, fair face, her hands were ruddy and rough. As she finished and screwed the top back on the bottle, I resumed skimming the contract guide—but not for long.

Who all’s been in there? I asked, stretching out my legs and settling my feet against the bottom of the railing.

Only the crew on his unit and a couple of supervisors. She flipped through a stack of papers on her desk and slid another form and two carbons into her typewriter. They only stay a few minutes, then they’re out. He gets me to call five at a time. They sit out in the hall until the one before leaves.

Yeah, I saw ’em when I came back from Mr. Frazier’s office. Isn’t that your husband at the end of the row?

Back when Sheila first started, Perry had pointed him out to me. He was as dark as Sheila was fair, but ruggedly handsome: swarthy complexion, coarse black hair combed down over a low forehead, thick black eyebrows, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. A slightly crooked nose, broken, Perry said, in a fight as a kid. He was a high school baseball star who hadn’t made it on a farm team, so he’d come back to work in the refinery, like his daddy before him.

Zack’s on the list, Sheila said. Clickety, clickety, click went the typewriter.

Why’s that? Isn’t he in maintenance?

He worked with Billy on a turnaround—he’s a pipefitter. Back in the summer. She pulled out one set of forms and inserted another. Looks like he’s jumping around different areas now. But he doesn’t take any time with most. She stopped typing and sat looking at the machine. Except old leather face and Levi Lemieux. They stayed in there maybe ten minutes or so.

Old leather face?

He’s a supervisor. She was typing away again, filling in a line, shifting the carriage, then looking at a page of handwritten notes beside the typewriter and typing another line. Jack Boudreaux. He’s been here thirty years.

He work with Graham?

Not really … They would’ve crossed paths, though. He’s never made it any secret that he doesn’t like blacks on the units. Or women. He started before there were any women out there. Blacks only worked in the labor gang.

He live in Vidor?

The typing stopped. What’s that got to do with it?

I heard no black man would ever dare show his face there after sundown.

The carriage on the typewriter whipped to the side with a ka-chunk that was harder than before. She turned toward me, a pained expression on her face, her mouth taut. Without the corners turned up in a smile, she looked almost plain—but not quite.

Look, I used to live in Vidor. It’s not like that. ’Least not anymore.

Sorry. I held up my hands, leaving the notebook resting in my lap. I was just repeating what I heard.

She wasn’t in a mood for teasing, I could tell—though she never spared me. When I bought a new cowboy hat and wore it to go with Perry to see Reagan at the Beaumont airport, she’d patted the front of my plaid shirt and asked if I’d gone cowboy; I’d be joining Ronnie’s posse soon. That gave me a thrill—not seeing Reagan, her patting me on the chest. Later, when I thought back on it, I remembered she’d often edge close to talk, touching my hand, my arm, and that one time my chest, almost like a cat rubbing against your leg.

Today she gave me only a wan smile and turned back to her work. Well, we don’t like hearing that. Vidor always gets a bad rap.

So where does old leather face live?

Vidor.

And the lone ranger in there is checking out the racial angle? I regretted the sarcasm even as I said it.

Levi Lemieux stayed longer, and he’s black as the ace of spades.

Ka-chunk went the typewriter again. I studied her profile. Pale yellow bangs low on her forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones, and wide mouth. Just a few freckles under her eyes. Her hair was cut in a shag that was almost boyish, thick and shaped over her ears and draped halfway down her neck. The ends swung forward when she tilted her head to look at the paper. Not so much pretty, as alluring. A nice shape, down to her waist and hands on the typewriter keys, all I could see over the railing.

I flipped a page or two in the notebook and stared at the union demands. Not likely to receive much attention in these tough times. I tapped my finger on the edge of the binder.

That’s his female angle, I said.

What? She stopped typing.

The black guy … Lemieux. Graham was killed over a woman.

She turned her head and gave me a sharp look, her brow knitted. Her fingers remained poised over the keys.

What do you mean by that?

Roy Rogers in there, I pointed toward the door to Perry’s office, says it wasn’t robbery—too much hate in the killing—so it had to be race or sex.

Looking down at her hands, she was silent for a moment, then she resumed typing. An interviewee opened the office door and came out. A muscular black man with a lined, weary face. Without speaking to us, he

Reviews for What Seems True

[librarycin · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

3.5 starsDan is the company lawyer for a business in Texas. In 1979, when a black supervisor is found murdered, two people – a married couple – are arrested for the murder. Dan had recently become friendly with Sheila, the wife, and can’t believe she would do something like that. Meanwhile, the union is planning a strike. It was good, but I found the union/company stuff less interesting. The mystery itself didn’t really dig into any racism (I thought it would), though the company complained about affirmative action and having to promote the black workers, even if they weren’t as qualified as the white workers. After the book got past much of the union issues, I found it more interesting, and I thought it had a good ending – a bit of a surprise. It turns out this was based on a real murder in Texas in 1979.

[delta61 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When I started this book, I thought it would be a modern western. It had a murder, a Texas Rangerbut it soon morphed into a union problem at a Texas refinery. Soon, the murder and the Ranger fell into the background and the story became an arbitration hearing with union employees. The story had a good lead in and the descriptions were good but the author had trouble finding names for his characters, falling back on celebrities' like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry and others.The arbitration went in circles, no one was charged with the murder, a black man by the name ofBilly Graham, by the way. Being a black man might have had something to do with it.